


time to know the awful truth

by larain



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: :), Angst, Gen, Memory Loss, Mentioned Sam | Awesamdude, Minecraft, Panic Attacks, Prison, Prisoner Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Realistic Minecraft, dream voice go brr, hes here for two seconds, kind of, ranboo and his short term memory, title from “touch-tone telephone” by lemon demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:34:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29603934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larain/pseuds/larain
Summary: Ranboo doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know what that sound is—the one that’s beginning to seem like an alarm—either, but it’s hurting his head.
Kudos: 50





	time to know the awful truth

**Author's Note:**

> this work is based entirely on the dream smp lore and characters. it isn’t meant to involve or represent the real ccs. please don’t send it to them or repost this anywhere else :) 
> 
> title from “touch-tone telephone” by lemon demon. (thanks to the funky ender boy for getting me into lemon demon. u fucker)

There are rocks, sharp and sweet, digging into Ranboo’s palms, leaving micro cuts in the skin. The knees of his pants are torn, he can feel water seeping through the space. His crown is gone. His hair falls, damp and loose, over his face. He can see the stars through gaps in the strands. 

There is a noise, loud and angry and red. It pierces clean through the otherwise still nighttime. Blood splatters from the sky like rain. He feels it pulsing through his skull, reverberating, knocking his teeth out into the puddle beneath him, splitting his eyes from their sockets. A scream, a shout, _something_ claws at the entrance of his throat. It drags dirty nails along the backs of his gums, the nerves on his tongue. All that comes out is a sigh, scratchy like an old record, uneven as the split ends dangling by his nose. 

“Why did you stop moving?” The voice is familiar in a way that makes his shoulders tense. It feels like sticky pine trees and summer rain, at first. Then deeper, _colder_ , it feels like the sweet _crack_ of a match being lit, the amethyst glow of overpowered armor, the black dust settling over leveled dirt. It feels like death.

“I was… moving?” Ranboo asks, confusion washing over him like blood. It drips from his nose, metallic on his top lip. He reaches into the depths of his mind for answers. He comes up blank. 

“You were running.” His voice is frighteningly level. He always sounds like this—confident, unwavering, empty of any fear. 

“From… what?” Ranboo feels groggy, slow, like he just woke up. He’s picking his way through this conversation half-asleep. 

“You know.” 

“I don’t. I can’t… remember,” 

Silence, for a moment. Another blare from what is beginning to sound like an alarm. 

His senses catch up and he’s finally able to gather his surroundings: sand, water, salty air. The beach. A beach. _What beach?_

There are trees behind him, tall and leaving suffocating shadows below. Ranboo picks his way through them against the wishes of Him. Dream. His voice, at least. 

“I don’t advise doing that.” 

Forward. Branches tear off skin and hair. Rain begins to drip, slow and pretty, from the deep dark sky. Bit by bit, the trees fall away, leaving him to view the building before him from the shadows. It’s big, bulky, all blackstone and gently glowing obsidian, splashes of blood red and metal. 

“Look at you… Dream’s little helper.” The voice has changed. It’s not Dream anymore—at least, it isn’t trying to imitate him. It’s just slightly off, enough to raise the hairs on his arms and set nausea in his stomach. 

“I’m not.” 

“Really? Then what is all of this?” It, the disembodied voice, gestures, he somehow knows, at the building. The prison. The alarm.

It pieces together slowly. The hole in the side of the prison is gaping, like the blank spots in his brain, gushing lava like a wound. He watches it pool from the wall, running smooth and hot into the water below. It sizzles with every splash. Steam sifts through the air. 

“ _Dream’s little helper._ ”

_We’re like best friends, Ranboo! You’re so helpful, Ranboo!_ He feels sick, like he might puke into the rain sodden earth. _You blew up the community house._ There’s black dust on his hands, in his nose, down his throat. _You burned George’s house to the fucking ground._ His pickaxe is still clutched in his grip. The handle is weaker, there’s a split in the wood. _Traitor._

The screen of his communicator is cracked and melted green. The message appears in horrible yellow letters.

< _Sam_ > _SECURITY BREACH AT PANDORA’S VAULT. DREAM HAS ESCAPED._

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed :) short but i saw colourmix’s animatic on youtube and i thought the concept was cool as fuck so i wrote abt it. check it out [here](https://youtu.be/LeacMBv5Img), its a sick ass animation.
> 
> see u around homies


End file.
